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My Poems

Didn’t it Rain?

She places a hand over her bare belly and peers into the full-length mirror. It isn’t swollen yet, but she can feel the fetus growing inside her.

For as long as she can remember, she has avoided looking too deep or for too long into a mirror – afraid of what she might find looking back at her. But there was a time when a new bindi, mismatched glass bangles, a hand-me-down dress, or a line of kohl were all reasons to admire her dusky beauty – capricious and flighty, the first signs of adolescence slipping in unseen by most, except lascivious uncles. It has been twelve years since that evening…

She moves the pastel curtains to a side and lets the pale sun spill in. Outside a potted hibiscus buds again.

music box –
the ballerina held up
with Band-Aids

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